Blame the Gas

It confused Sunny to hear the sound of her alarm clock, waking her in the early-morning darkness. The sun had been up when she'd closed her eyes. She'd watched the shadows it had cast against the wall as . . . someone . . . had moved smoothly in and out of her, their silhouettes merging into a single shape. Their joy had seemed unending, and even as she'd lost consciousness, she'd felt him continuing to move.

He wasn't atop her now, whoever he was, but she could feel him beside her, his chest against her side. He stirred at the alarm, and something hard poked her leg. Then he drew back--embarrassed, perhaps?

Very faintly, she thought she smelled lilacs. But the smell was soon gone, and she was still in bed with a man whose face she couldn't remember.

Something told Sunny not to turn on the lights. Instead, she reached for the remote on the nightstand, turning on the TV by the far wall. A haggard-looking newscaster spoke awkwardly out of the screen. --apparent plan to capture members of the terrorist group Conscience of America backfired yesterday. No government organization has claimed responsibility for the strike, but CoA has explicitly denied the use of chemical weapons, and their anti-gay agenda makes it unlikely that they--

"Turn it off," the stranger grunted. "Need to sleep."

--The CoA members had released all hostages from the museum, but had threatened to destroy the paintings inside. The as-yet-unnamed bioweapon, apparently some manner of airborne aphrodisiac, successfully incapacitated the terrorists. It is not yet known why the the bioweapon spread outside the building, but it had noticeable effects for several miles around the area, particularly to the south-- The reporter briefly fell silent. Fuck this. I had sex with Sandra on-air. My career is already--A "technical difficulties" placard cut off anything else he might have said.

South of the museum, she repeated in her head. She was just a block away.

"Turn it off," the stranger repeated, and this time, she recognized his voice.

"James, did we . . ."

"Turn it off, Sis. Let's sleep some more. When we wake up, we'll have to remember."

---- ---- ----

Sunny had a daily schedule, and she did her best to follow it. Right now, it called for a leisurely jog as the sun rose. It did not call for a humiliating trip to the twenty-four-hour pharmacy to purchase a tablet of Plan B, nor for her to wash it down with coffee while her brother looked on.

"Good thing they haven't run out yet," James said. "I really, really don't want to think about what might have happened if they had."

"Fuck this!" Sunny almost shouted. "If--if it hadn't been summer break. If you hadn't been home on vacation . . ."

"There was no good way this could have gone," James told her. "If it happened in the evening, we might have had sex with Mom and Dad. If one of us wasn't home, the other would have stumbled out into the street, and probably would have had sex with some drug addict. Even if this was next fall, and you were off at college, too, some of the gas got inside the dorms."

Sunny had spent years trying and failing to tell people that just because she was a runner didn't mean she was gay. But the dorms were single-sex, and she couldn't help but picture herself buried under a pile of satisfied young women, most of whom would probably brag later about their one and only lesbian encounter. She should have been disgusted. She would have been disgusted, if she didn't smell lilacs in the air.

"We can't blame ourselves, Sis," James continued. "I've been watching the TV, and they say only children weren't affected." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Dad's office is near the museum, and Mom's shop isn't too much farther. They'll probably never tell us what happened. Let's do the same. We can't forget it, but we can still move past it, right?"

James. Yes, she did like James. They'd always been a pair. James, the bookworm and Sunny, the athlete. Pudgy James and skinny Sunny. James, who read and learned, and Sunny, who ran and planned.

Male James and female Sunny. James on top and Sunny on bottom. James, who yelled, and Sunny, who moaned . . .

Stop heaving, she told her stomach. The pill had cost her sixty dollars, and she had no intention of wasting it. She suspected not even the smell of vomit would cover up the smell of lilacs.

---- ---- ----

"When do you think Mom and Dad will be home?" Sunny asked.

James sprawled on the couch, his back to her. "I don't know why they're not here now."

"So they could come at any time. Before they get here, we need to figure out what we are to each other now. James, what do you see when you look at me?"

This was when he finally got up, and consequently, this was when he realized she was naked again. "I see . . . Uh . . . Could you please put your clothes back on?"

"What do you see, James? I need to know."

James made his way around the couch. He wasn't all that close to her, but she still felt like he was in her personal space. "I see a girl who's wanted to run in the Olympics ever since she was a kid, and who's focused her mind and body on running faster and farther. I see a girl who couldn't be more toned if you ran her through Photoshop, and who always moves like she knows it. I see a girl who's been my friend for a very long time. I see my little sister."

"I've got to admit," Sunny told him, "that was pretty good." Then, her tone conspiratorial, "Yesterday, was I pretty good?"

"Stop it, Sis. Please."

"It's apples to oranges, I know, but I've never tried any exercises down there. Did I squeeze you so tight you were amazed it even fit? Did I milk you until you couldn't stand it anymore?"

He spoke quietly, but he didn't lower his eyes. "Yes. You did."

"If I was still your sister, you wouldn't be able to say that. We're something else now. So what are we?"

Slowly, carefully, he moved close enough to kiss her. Not a sensuous but empty kiss, like you might give to a one-night-stand, and not a chaste peck on the cheek, like you'd give to your sister. This was tender and needy all at once.

"We're this," he told her. "Whatever this is."

Before he could say anything more, she'd already pulled his pants down.

On her knees before him, she admired his cock. She'd never before gotten a good look at it--just a brief glimpse once or twice when he'd forgotten to lock his door--and she very nearly thought it ridiculous as it flopped in front of her. But it hardened surprisingly fast, and despite James's frantic objections, he didn't move away as she took the tip in her mouth.

Properly extended, it was surprisingly long--she couldn't swallow much of it before she started to gag. Still, she found an odd pleasure in having part of it inside her. It's like a lollipop, she thought. A lilac lollipop.

"You smell it too," James said. It wasn't a question, and in any event, she couldn't answer it as she sucked contentedly on the member in her mouth. James kept silent as long as he could, but he shouted as an explosion of flavor flooded Sunny's mouth, a taste that she could only assume was like she had eaten a lilac.

"Your turn," she told him through a mouthful of cum.

"We need to do this on the bed," he said--a step up, at least, from We shouldn't be doing this at all.

---- ---- ----

"You know," she told him as she sprawled out on the bed, "most guys don't think I'm cute. I'm thin, but I'm not the right kind of thin, and my boobs are way too small."

"Most girls think I'm pudgy," he replied. "But if you're willing to call me cuddly, I can call you sculpted. And your breasts are the perfect size." As if to prove it, he kissed one, then briefly licked it. Then he moved his lips farther and farther down, past her belly button and between her legs.

He was surprisingly tender, one pair of lips against another. "Do you like that?" he asked. "Or . . ." He ran a finger across her clitoris. "Would you rather I do something like this?"

"Uh, wow. I'm not sure I'm ready for that yet--I didn't realize just how much I'd feel from it. But you can do whatever you want with everything around it."

Silently, he returned to the brush of lips against lips. "That's better," she mumbled. "And that's even better . . . Oh, stop being such a tease and stick your tongue in!"

Well, he did. Quite well, in fact. She could barely even see straight as it circled around inside her, until . . .

"Do you really taste like lilacs," he asked afterwards, "or is it some sort of hallucination?"

She put her hand to her pussy, wetting it before raising it to her mouth for an experimental lick. "I don't taste it," she said. "I guess we're just crazy. Or gassed."

"Sunny, what will we do when Mom and Dad come home?"

She pictured James sucking Dad's cock while she pleasured Mom's pussy. Then she wadded up the image and tossed it into her mental garbage bin. "Let's keep this between us for now."

"Damn it," James said. "Two days ago, I'd never even have imagined this."

"Not much has changed," Sunny told him. "You still love your sister, right?"

---- ---- ----

The reporter from earlier was gone now, either fired or sent home for a well-deserved rest. In his place, a tall blonde woman spoke in a voice that wavered only between "perky" and "perkier." A full day after the release of the so-called "p-bomb," numerous victims are continuing to experience inappropriate sexual urges. Doctors are still arguing about the biological cause of these urges, but one, Doctor Marcus Enkels, has developed an unusual theory.

The camera cut to a balding man who wore a green tie over a white lab coat. So you have all these people who want to do these things--have sex with their friends, have sex with their siblings, have gay sex, whatever. But they're afraid of the social consequences, so they don't admit their urges, even to themselves. Then you have an event that, by whatever mechanism, forces them to do those things. After it's over, all their longings are out in the open, and by pretending it's not really over, they can keep the consequences from applying to them. In formal terms, it's gone from biological to psychosomatic.

Very interesting, Doctor Enkels, the reporter said. Now back to you, Brad.

"Do you think he's right?" James asked.

"Maybe," Sunny said. "But I'd rather just blame the gas."